


The Seven Year Itch

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Romance, Sexual Content, Threesome, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-08
Updated: 2006-08-23
Packaged: 2018-10-01 01:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10177841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Harry and Ron are happy. The sex is great. They've been in a committed, fulfilling relationship for years and see no need to change anything. Until they realize they've falled into a rut and need something to nudge them out of it. And then Hermione stumbles back into their lives. Fresh out of a painful divorce, she needs some comfort and excitement. When she seeks out her two best friends who she hasn't seen or spoken to in seven years, she gets more than she bargained for. They all do.





	1. Author's Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

**Title:** Seven Year Itch

**Pairing(s)** : Ron/Harry, Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ron/Hermione

**Author:** SparkySparky

**Rating:** NC-17

**Chapter:** 1/8

**Warnings:** Highly graphic sex, het and slash, threesome, bondage, light D/s, spanking

**Summary:** Harry and Ron are happy. The sex is great. They've been in a committed, fulfilling relationship for years and see no need to change anything. Until they realize they've falled into a rut and need something to nudge them out of it. And then Hermione stumbles back into their lives. Fresh out of a painful divorce, she needs some comfort and excitement. When she seeks out her two best friends who she hasn't seen or spoken to in seven years, she gets more than she bargained for. They all do. 

**Disclaimer:** I have to deal with the fact that these characters do not belong to me. *SOB* 

**Word Count:** 2,939 (2,939 total)

**Updates:** Every Tuesday


	2. Chapter One

  
Author's notes: Harry and Ron realize something is missing.   


* * *

Ron rolled over and slapped at the wireless’ snooze button, but Celestina Warbeck wasn’t silenced so easily. 

“Dragon’s balls,” he cursed, as Celestina continued to mourn her charmed-away heart. He didn’t care how painful her broken heart was, it wasn’t something positive to wake up to this early in the morning. 

He hit the button again. But her voice still filled the room, her sugary melody almost as irritating as her angsty lyrics. 

“What does it take—“

_Smack_

“—to get you—“

_Splat_

“—to shut the bloody hell—“

_Smash_

“—up!”

He rolled out of bed, crouched on the floor, reached for his wand and sent a frustrated _Silencio_ at the thrice cursed object. 

Silence. Blissful, rapturous, blessed silence. 

Ron dragged himself back up to sit on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “Firewhiskey,” he moaned. “I remember firewhiskey.” Actually he remember a _lot_ of firewhiskey. He also remembered an enormous platter of very spicy—kachos? Dachos? No, that wasn’t quite right. Nachos, he remembered the Muggle term now, loud music and something called…karaoke. Had he actually sung along to a butchered rendition of the Weird Sister’s song _I’ll Take a Bite Out of You_?

Suddenly he lifted his head and sniffed the air. Coffee. 

Naked and running solely on caffeine fumes he trudged down the hall and into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard, doped it up with sugar and had downed half the scalding brew by the time he felt the presence behind him. Very slowly he turned around. 

“Hangover?” asked Harry, his voice as silky and lustrous as the amber tie knotted loosely at his throat. 

Another dose of caffeine fortified Ron to face Harry’s brilliant green eyes. Those eyes had blinded lesser men. And more than a few women. 

Ron gulped another mouthful of coffee and met Harry’s eyes. “This isn’t a hangover.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his rangy, compact frame against the doorjamb. 

Damn, he looked good, Ron thought. But then, Harry always looked good. Whether, like today, he sported expertly pressed trousers and shirt, a tie and an official Ministry robe hanging by the door waiting to be out on, or ass-hugging jeans and a jumper, Harry always looked put together. With the artfully mussed black hair, square glasses rimmed with gold and his face freshly shaved, Harry looked exactly like what he was—a Very Important Wizard. 

If he were anyone else, Ron would have resented the hell out of him. And had, he admitted, in their youth. 

“No?” asked Harry. “If it’s not a hangover, then what is it?”

“It’s a manifestation of God’s wrath, visited directly on my skull.”

“You don’t believe in God.”

Ron took another sip of coffee, savoring the heat as it drained down his throat. “Call in the prists—“

“Priests.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Call in the priests. I’m about to recant.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t smile. Something was wrong. 

But Harry didn’t say anything, just went to the cold cupboard and out a small vial filled with a murky brown potion.

“How about potions? Do you believe in potions?”

Ron hesitated. “Potions?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good potions?”

“The best.”

“Seamus’ Celebrational Cure?”

“With Neville’s secret ingredient. They gave it to me last night, thinking you’d need it this morning.”

Ron snatched the vial up and downed it quickly, washing away the disgusting taste with the last of his coffee. “They’re angels. You’re an angel.”

“Huh.” Harry turned away. “If I’m an angel, what does that make you?”

Ron tossed his mug in the sink, it to rinse itself and followed his lover into the living room. 

As usual the place was a mess. Newspapers and books littered the coffee table, and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on top of the television. Several stray socks had huddled beneath a bookcase and a stack of unpaid bills waited patiently on the armchair. Somehow a pair of denims has found their way on top of the stereo, hiding it from view. The couch, at least, was free of clutter, but only because all the crap got kicked off it whenever one of them decided to nap there. 

Ron leaned against the side of the couch for support. “Huh? What does that mean?”

Harry stood before the CD rack, arms folded, scanning titles. “You were drunk last night.”

“Yeah? So? I seem to recall that happening before.” He brushed a few strands of his long auburn hair out of his eyes. “On occasion.”

“Yeah, well, you were _really_ drunk.”

Already feeling the effects of Seamus’ cure, Ron hopped over the back of the couch and sat down. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I seem to recall spending much of the first few years after Voldemort’s downfall being ‘really’ drunk. You didn’t mind then.”

“That’s because I was ‘really drunk’ too. I didn’t know the difference.”

“Aha!” Ron leaned back and spread his arms wide. “There’s the problem. You didn’t drink _enough_ last night. If you had, then maybe you would have had some fun.”

Harry pulled a CD out, examined it, and stuck it back in the slot. “Somebody needed to stay sober so they could Floo you back home and carry you into bed.”

“You didn’t carry me,” Ron said, feeling defensive. “And since when is this a problem anyway? I’ve lost count of the times I had to clean you up and put _you_ to bed.”

Harry whirled on him. “I was fucking _bored_ last night, okay? Neville and Seamus spent the night snogging in the corner, Dean was busy chatting up random girls, the food was bad, the music was awful, and—“ Harry growled something unintelligible and stalked over to the sliding glass doors. He tugged it open a few inches, allowing a fragrant spring breeze to flirt with his hair. 

Ron was feeling disoriented. This wasn’t like Harry at all. “And what? What else?”

“It was like you didn’t even know I was there. You just kept drinking and dancing and _singing_. I felt invisible.”

“I just wanted to try something different. If you didn’t want to go, you should have said so. And I didn’t intend to ignore you.”

“I did want to go, and I know it was my fault I didn’t want to dance. But by the time we got there, you were too drunk to notice I wasn’t having a good time. Too drunk to care.”

“You’re just mad because I finally dragged you onstage with me.”

“I don’t even want to _talk_ about that.”

Ron sprang up from the couch. “So what? I embarrass you now?”

“Only when you imitate Myron Wagtail and dance like…like…Lavender Brown.”

Ron’s mouth hung open. _Lavender Brown_? Before he could come up with a response, Harry added, “And for Merlin’s sake, put some clothes on.”

Ron glared at Harry for a moment before swaggering over to the balcony door of their third-floor apartment. He leaned against the glass, facing Harry. “My being naked never bothered you before, either.”

Harry tossed a nervous glance outside, at the three-story walk-up on the other side of the street. “Maybe not, but the neighbors might have a problem with it.”

“I don’t know. I think I look pretty damned good. Quidditch agrees with me.”

Harry’s eyes roamed over Ron, the attempt quick but thorough, and not nearly as discreet as he probably thought/ Harry swallowed thickly, his gaze resting in the general area of Ron’s groin. “You know it does.”

Ron smiled. Hours of flying, doing laps around the field and hundreds of drills kept him toned and fit, and he refused to be ashamed of what he’d worked so hard to attain. “Well, then, let ‘em enjoy the view.”

Ron glanced at the front of Harry’s trousers and added, “ _You_ certainly are.”

Harry’s gaze snapped back to Ron’s eyes. “Don’t change the subject. If the neighbors see you, they—“

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, who the hell cares about the neighbors?”

“We care.”

Ron stepped closer. “Do we?”

Harry didn’t retreat. “Of course we do. It took us nearly a year to get the landlords to accept our relationship!”

“Fuck the landlords.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Ron grabbed Harry by the tie and dragged him back into the living room. “Okay, okay, you’ve got a point.”

They stood in the middle of the room, Harry’s head tilted up so his face wasn’t lost in Ron’s throat, breath mingling, and blood pumping.

Ron released Harry’s tie and allowed his hands to drift. Through the light fabric of Harry’s shirt, Ron traced the outline of Harry’s pecs, skimmed the ridges of his abs. Like Ron, Harry preferred to get his exercise outdoors, flying, running and playing Muggle football in the park. He also made use of the Muggle gym down the road and worked out several times a week and it showed. 

His hands resting on Harry’s belt, Ron whispered, “I don’t fancy shagging the _landlords_. You know full well who I want to fuck.”

“Is this your answer to everything, Ron?” Harry’s body remained stiff, but the objection was half-hearted and he didn’t move away. 

“It works for me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Ron’s hand roamed lower, until he brushed across Harry’s zipper. He pressed his palm against the enticing bulge and grinned. “Pull the other one, mate.”

Harry leaned forward and Ron caught a whiff of exotic spices and heavy musk, a scent that was all Harry. “I’m due at the Ministry, Ron.”

“Not for three hours, you’re not. That’s lots of time.”

Harry’s hands were on him now. Strong fingers gripped Ron’s waist, and pulled him closer. The silky fabric of Harry’s shirt brushed Ron’s chest, the cotton of Harry’s trousers rubbed against Ron’s cock. His already substantial erection hardened still more. 

Harry’s lips grazed Ron’s ear. “You know,” he said, his breath hot as the blood that pumped through Ron’s veins. Into his cock. “I lied before. You didn’t dance like Lavender Brown.”

Ron sneaked his hand beneath the waistband of Harry’s trousers and felt the other man’s fingers dig more deeply into his skin. Ron touched the base of Harry’s cock and Harry groaned. 

“I knew it,” said Ron, as he stroked and teased. “I knew you were making it up.”

Harry’s breathing accelerated, his chest heaving rapidly as Ron drew a line with his tongue down Harry’s throat.

“Actually I was being kind,” said Harry, his voice surprisingly even. “You looked more like an epileptic monkey.”

“What?” Ron’s head snapped up and he was momentarily distracted from his goal. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was enough for Harry to push him back onto the couch and pin his wrist down. 

“Hey!” protested Ron too surprised and aroused to put up a decent fight. “You can’t say something like that and expect to get away with it.”

Harry waggled his eyebrows. “Watch me.” And then he bent his head and took Ron’s cock deep into his mouth. 

Ron’s head fell back against the couch. “Sweet Merlin.” He writhed and groaned but Harry’s grip on his wrists only tightened. 

Physically the two men were a pretty even match, despite Ron’s half foot and two stone advantage. Harry was stronger than his wiry frame would belie, and their equal strength came in handy for the occasional wrestling match. Or sex game. If Ron had really wanted to, he probably could have dislodged Harry’s hands and freed himself. But why the hell would he want to?

Harry didn’t bother with niceties. His mouth was rough, hard, his tongue eager. Sweat broke out on Ron’s chest, trickled down his belly. Apparently Harry noticed. Suddenly he broke off to lave Ron’s stomach with his tongue. He lapped up the beads of sweat that had pooled in Ron’s navel, and then dragged his tongue back over the flat plane of Ron’s belly toward his cock. The action was slow and torturous, the anticipation agonizingly sweet. 

“Dragon’s balls mate,” Ron groaned as his stomach muscles quivered and twitched. “Get on with it already.”

“Greedy, greedy. Patience,” said Harry, “you’re always in such a rush.” His tongue reached the base of Ron’s cock and drew a languid line along its length. 

He reached the top, licked away the bead of cum and then, very slowly, took Ron deep again. Harry sucked slowly at first, and Ron relaxed, giving himself over to the sensations. But the respite was brief. 

Within minutes, Harry resumed his hard, rapid strokes, and Ron’s fists were clenched to as he fought off a climax that threatened to come too soon. 

Abruptly Harry released his wrists, reached around and thrust two fingers into Ron’s ass and that was all it took. Ron came; arching his back and pumping himself dry as the ecstasy poured through him, and out through his cock. Harry’s fingers continued to twist as he greedily swallowed Ron’s cum. He held Ron firmly, taking him far back in his throat until, drained and spent, Ron collapsed back onto the couch. 

Harry sat back on his haunches and watched him. His green eyes danced with mischief and unsated desire. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “You taste like firewhiskey.”

“Firewhiskey, Right. Of course I do.” Ron sucked in a deep breath and studied his lover. “You can’t wear that shirt to work now.”

Harry glanced down himself and shrugged. “Oh well. Too bad cleaning charms do a pants job on cum stains. I—“

Ron leaned forward, grabbed the shirt in both hands and wrenched it apart, sending buttons flying and exposing the smooth flesh that he so desperately needed to see.

“Hey!” Harry protested. “This thing’s designer. Do you know how much it cost? I—“

Ron leaned forward, braced his shoulders on Harry’s thigh and stood up, Harry coming with him. He headed down the hall with Harry slung over his shoulder toward the bedroom.

“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?” The irritation in Harry’s voice was overshadowed by the laughter.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“But why not in the living room?” Harry’s hands found Ron’s ass and squeezed. 

“I’ve got an idea.”

“An idea?”

They reached the bedroom and Ron threw Harry onto the bed. Harry just lay there, panting, his slender chest glistening with sweat, his cock straining at his fly.

Ron crawled onto the bed, sat between Harry’s thighs and grabbed his tie. He wrapped it once around his palm and pulled until Harry was sitting up and their mouths were just a breath apart. 

“How many ties do you own?” Ron asked, his eyes focused on Harry’s.

“Umm…fifteen maybe?”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why?”

Ron waggled his eyebrows. “I think it’s time we put them to good use.”

“What does that mean?”

“Pick out four you think you can part with and I’ll show you.”

***

Harry sat bolt upright in bed and cast a worried glance at the clock. A discarded tie covered the face and Harry had to fling it aside to see the time.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and flopped back on the pillows. He hadn’t slept as long as he thought, and still had an hour before he was due at the Ministry for a meeting with the other department heads. He was mulling over what he needed to tell him about his own department, when a loud snort from the other side of the bed demanded his attention. 

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at the man beside him. He smiled and shook his head. Ron slept like he did everything else—with gusto. His long, wavy hair was fanned out across the pillow, his arms and legs flung wide. Ron had a knack for taking up almost three-quarters of the available space on the bed, and his snores could rattle the windows at fifty paces. He worked hard, played harder, his rugged physique and deeply bronzed skin, attesting to just how much time and energy he devoted to his passions. He gave his all in every situation, and he never turned his back on trouble. Or on a friend. 

Barring a few post-war one night stands, and one catastrophic stab at marriage for Harry, they had been together almost ten years and Harry had never once regretted his decision. They were good together. They were best friend, and Merlin knew the sex was fantastic. 

So what was going wrong?

Harry knew he’d overreacted the night before, but he didn’t know why. He also didn’t know why they’d been arguing more lately, picking fights over everything from which brand of coffee they should buy, to escalating fights about bills. 

He lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as he considered the events of the past few months. Had something changed and they just couldn’t see it? If so, how did they figure out what _it_ was, and when they did, what did they do about it?

But the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that _nothing_ had changed. 

Everything in their relationship was exactly the same as it had been a year ago. Two years ago. _Five_ years ago.

And then it hit him. At last he knew exactly what was wrong. How could they have missed it? How could they have been so blind?

He closed his eyes and groaned. Now, if only he could figure out what to do about it. 

 

 

_Sneak peak of next week's episode:_

_Maybe she’d give herself a few days to get reacquainted with London, and with the British magical world. And then, when she was more comfortable, she’d look them up._

_Yes, that was what she’d do, Hermione decided. She at least needed to let them know she was back in the country, and after that, it would be up to them if they wanted to reaffirm their friendship._

_She would fortify herself with a snifter or two of forty year old cognac, and take the plunge._

_These weren’t men to be taken lightly.  
_


	3. Chapter Two

Hermione stared out the airplane window and watched the ground grow gradually closer. It had been seven years since she’d been home, seven years since she’d seen the faces of her family and friends. Seven years was too long to be away from home.

“Ms. Granger?”

“Yes?” Hermione turned sideways to face the flight attendant who crouched beside her. She was a cute little thing, with curly blonde hair and guileless blue eyes. She seemed so innocent, so young. 

Hermione shuddered. Since when did someone in their twenties start looking _young_?

“We’re on approach,” the girl said with a solicitous smile, “and I need you to do up your belt.”

“Right.” Hermione reached for the belt and snapped it together. “Of course.”

The girl nodded toward the empty seat beside Hermione. “Your husband has been in the washroom for quite awhile. Do you think I should check on him?”

Hermione blinked. “Husband?” and then she realized the mistake and laughed. “Oh God, no. That man’s not my husband. I don’t even know his name. We just got to talking and realized we had some business interests in common.”

The stewardess, who's nametag read Sidney, straightened and Hermione followed her glance toward the first-class washroom stall. 

“I think he’ll be fine,” offered Hermione. “He just had a little too much to drink.”

The flight attendant nodded. “I see. Well, I’ll check on him anyway.” She turned to go and then seemed to think better of it. “Is there anything I can get you before we land, Ms. Granger? A glass of water perhaps? It’s been a long flight and we left Paris very early.”

“No, thank you,” said Hermione, turning back to the window. “I’m fine.” She shook her head in self depreciation as the fight attendant left. 

Who as she kidding? She wasn’t fine. Hadn’t been fine for almost two years now. She’d descended into hell two years ago, and had been struggling to fight her way out of it ever since. Her husband had betrayed her, had lied to her and used her, and it had taken her too long to figure out the full scope of his offenses. She’d wanted to believe in him, had wanted to believe in their marriage vows and the sanctity of that trust, but in the end all her illusions had been shattered. 

The divorce had been final three months ago, and it had taken her almost that long to figure out it wasn’t enough. She’d hoped the finality of the divorce would help her put the whole revolting experience behind her, help her get on with her life. But int eh end she’d realized it _wasn’t_ enough. She still had to see him every day at the Ministry, had to pretend to ignore the scathing gossip around the office. Had to watch him fawn all over his new wife. The ink hadn’t even been dry on the divorce papers before Philippe had married his mistress. Had announced they were having the baby Hermione had ached to have for years. 

Bastard, she thought. 

And so, she had left. Quit her job as the British ambassador to the French Ministry and run home. She needed the two best friends she had left behind seven years earlier, needed their love and support. Needed them to talk to and laugh with. Needed to share the experiences life had shown her since they’d parted, needed to share in their experiences as well.

Thanks to her hectic work schedule and antisocial husband, she hadn’t made many friends in Paris, in the city she’d wanted to call home. She’d decided to come back to England. Permanently. 

As the airport runway grew closer she considered all those she’d left behind and wondered if they’d still be here waiting for her. She thought of all her old friends from Hogwarts, who she’d fought alongside in the war, and lost touch with afterwards. She thought of her parents and how much she missed them, and of their senseless deaths at the hands of Voldemort and his minions.

Her years at Hogwarts and the three years of the war were both the best and worst times in her life. She’d learned to be a witch, and had found two men who were her soul mates, but had left them behind to further her career. She’d promised to keep in touch with them when she’d moved to Paris, but she hadn’t kept that promise. 

Her seatmate staggered back down the aisle and flopped into his seat. She tossed a wary glance his way to assure herself he wasn’t going to vomit or do something equally as offensive. 

After she’d satisfied herself she was quite safe from her seatmate’s bodily fluids, Hermione returned to her thoughts. 

Would Ron and Harry be glad to see her? Or would they be angry she hadn’t so much as sent an owl in all the time she’d lived in Paris? 

Maybe she’d give herself a few days to get reacquainted with London, and with the British magical world. And then, when she was more comfortable, she’d look them up. 

Yes, that was what she’d do, Hermione decided. She at least needed to let them know she was back in the country, and after that, it would be up to them if they wanted to reaffirm their friendship. 

She would fortify herself with a snifter or two of forty year old cognac, and take the plunge. 

These weren’t men to be taken lightly.

***

Harry tapped his quill on the blotted and stared outside at the sun-washed landscape. This was the best thing about working for the Ministry. All the “windows” in his office were charmed to show him any sight he wished to see. This week he’d chosen to look upon the rolling hills of Ireland. The bright green grass danced in the wind and several fluffy white sheep stood, grazing now and then. It was peaceful, and Harry often found himself staring out the window to calm down, when what he really wanted to do was wring Scrimgeour’s neck.

A flash of brown caught Harry’s eye and he managed to make out a thoroughbred stallion streaking across the hills, a study in grace, strength and beauty. Horses were a particular favorite of Harry’s, though they didn’t have the power and magesty of Hippogriff’s or even Centaurs, they were certainly easier to tame and easier to ride. He himself kept three at the Potter family estate. 

“Mr. Potter, Sir,” said a voice from the doorway. 

“Yeah, Colin?” he asked, tamping down his irritation. Colin was Harry’s administrative assistant, but Harry really wished the younger man would refrain from from calling him sir. They’d gone to school together, and had indulged in a weekend affair years earlier, before Harry had committed himself to Ron. Colin’s calling Harry “Sir” was not only ridiculous, but insulting. 

Since Colin was fairly new to his position, having been with Harry for just under a month, Harry was willing to give Colin time to become comfortable. 

“Minister Scrimgeour has requested a meeting with you this afternoon. Are you free?”

Harry frowned, and glanced that stack of paperwork on his desk. His job as director of the Muggle Relations and Magical History department at the Ministry sounded much simpler than it was. The MRMH department had been Harry’s brain-child, a result of his own shock at suddenly being told he was a Wizard, and having to rely on Ron’s Pureblood knowledge and Hermione’s book knowledge for everything he knew about the Wizarding world.

Over the seven years since the Second War with Voldemort had ended, Harry had lobbied long and hard for Muggleborn Wizards to be made aware of the Magical world at the time of their first incident of Accidental Magic. He’d cajoled, and bullied and played on his fame until a second school had been established, where Muggleborns and their familes could learn about the Magical World and become comfortable with the history and customs of the world in which their children would be educated. At the same time, he’d pushed through legislation that required all Pure and Half-blood students be educated in Muggle Studies before starting school. 

The programs were entering the fifth year of their conception, and so far, there had been only a few major problems. The largest of which was the current Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour. Scrimgeour had never fully forgiven Harry for proclaiming himself Dumbledore’s man and refusing to be a pawn of the Ministry in the fight against Voldemort. 

“Mr. Potter?” Colin asked again. “Are you free for the Minister?”

“Colin, please consider calling me Harry. We’re friends, as well as co-workers, and I think we’re beyond surnames at this point.” Harry pulled open his personal organizer and consulted his schedule. It was, as he had already known; open for the rest of the afternoon, in anticipation of catching up on paperwork and perhaps inviting Ron over for a…meeting. But, if he wanted to push through his new bill for non-magical werewolf rights, he needed to keep the minister placated. “Let Scrimgeour know I have an hour between two and three today, if that’s convenient for him.” 

“Thank you, sir…er Harry. I’ll let him know.” Colin gave an awkward half bow and backed out of the room. 

Harry shook his head in discouragement. Colin was bowing, now? What was next, genuflection down on one knee?

Turning his attention to the files on his desk, he missed the flare of the fireplace and was taken by surprise when a tentative female voice called out, “Harry? Harry Potter, are you there?”

Harry blinked. That voice. There was something familiar about it, but…”Yes, I’m here. Who’s calling?”

“Harry! I can’t believe I actually caught you! It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“I’m sorry, but you seem to have me at a disadvantage.” Harry stood from his desk and walked over to the fireplace. “Should I know you?”

The woman laughed, a light and breezy sound that tumbled out of the hearth and sent Harry back in time seven years. “Oh honestly!” she said. “Hold on, let me put my head through.”

Harry watched in anticipation as a head bobbed in his fireplace. The bushy hair, the slightly off-center mouth was exactly as he had remembered. “Hermione!”

“Hi, Harry.” Even through the flames, Harry could see the faint apprehension in Hermione’s hazel eyes. 

“Hermione, it’s so great to hear you, to see you. How’ve you been?”

Hermione gave a slight laugh, not nearly as airy as her last. “I’m fine. I’m back in England, you know.”

“Really? How long?”

“Just a few days. I’ve been visiting my parents.” She was silent for a moment. “I wanted to thank you for the flowers. They were very beautiful.”

“It was Ron’s idea. He went every year. We both did.” Mr. and Mrs. Granger had been killed shortly after Hermione’s 18th birthday. Harry Ron and Hermione had been in Germany at the time, searching for Horcruxes.

Hermione sniffled and Harry knew she was blinking back tears. He knew more than anyone that you never really got over losing your parents. “Thank you.”

“So, France didn’t agree with you?”

“No, it did. For awhile. But I needed to come home. Sometimes home is the best place to be, after all.”

Harry hesitated to break the silence that followed. “So, what’s going on, Hermione? What brings you back to the land of bangers and mash?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got the rest of my life.”

She laughed again, and he was glad. “Well, it’s too long to discuss on a Fire Call. How about we meet for tea or something.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t Ron and I take you out to dinner? Where are you staying?”

“I’m at a little bed and breakfast, near the Leaky Cauldron, but not in the Wizarding district. It’s a charming place really, and near enough to Diagon Alley, should I wish to venture there.”

“Wonderful. Neville and Seamus run a great little pub in Diagon Alley, fancier than the Leaky Cauldron, but still casual. They have the best—“

“Actually, I’d rather go someplace Muggle, if it was alright with you and Ron. I don’t know as I’m ready to see _everyone_ quite yet. I don’t need anything fancy, fish and chips will do.”

He smiled. He would have loved to treat her to something special, but knew better than to argue. This was one woman who knew what she wanted, and had never bothered to hide it. “Fine, it’s a date. We’ll meet you there, say at seven?”

“Great.”

“Good, I—“

“Oh, and you’re welcome to bring Ginny, if you’d like. I’d love to see her!” 

“Ginny? Why would you bring her up?”

Hermione glanced down at his finger, where the simple gold band silently proclaimed his married status. “So, seven?”

Harry nodded; too shocked to correct her assumption that he’d married Ginny, of all people. Luna would have his balls if he’d ever even thought about it. But Hermione couldn’t know that. 

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to see you all! Good-bye!” Hermione’s head disappeared from the flames, and left Harry still staring wide eyed at the empty space. 

Harry tossed a glance at Ron’s picture perched discreetly on a shelf in the corner. Picture Ron glared in his direction and stomped angrily out of the frame. “We’ll tell her tonight,” Harry said to the photograph. Picture Ron’s hand appeared and flashed the two fingered salute in his direction. “God, you’re such a drama queen,” Harry grumbled. But he knew Real Ron would be more understanding than Picture Ron. Afterall, Picture Ron was just that—a picture. And Real Ron could reason and debate where Picture Ron could just communicate with rude gestures, and the occasional wink. 

Harry shook his head and turned his thoughts to Hermione. Good, old Hermione. The smartest, most powerful witch of their generation. And the loveliest. Although her hair was bushy and a non-descript shade of brown, and her features were a little too off-center to be considered classically beautiful, Hermione had always shone with an inner brilliance that had drawn people to her like a moth to a flame. She was beautiful from the inside out, self-assured and ambitious. She was the best of them. Always had been. 

He could alredy imagine Ron’s reaction to the news. A huge smile would spread across his face and his jaw would drop open. And then he would say two little words. 

And those words would be, “Bloody brilliant!”

 

_Sneak Peak of Next Week’s installment:_

_Ron sat back in his chair and watched her. She was smiling and laughing now, no doubt thanks to his and Harry’s banter and antics. They’d very deliberately not asked her about the outburst, focusing instead on more happy topics._

_Ron had related some of his more spectacular moves as Keeper for the Chudley Canons, and Harry had her laughing over some of Scrimgeour’s more ridiculous actions as Minister. They’d told her about Neville and Seamus’ shocking romance, and Dean’s wife and children. No mention was made of the War, or of their Hogwart’s days._

_Harry hadn’t yet told her he wasn’t married to Ginny, and was in fact, involved with Ron. They’d agreed to wait until after dinner to make that announcement. They only hoped their relationship wouldn’t cause her to rethink rekindling their friendship. They’d both missed Hermione terribly, and wanted her in their lives._

_But they wouldn’t give each other up for her. That wasn’t in the cards._

__


	4. Chapter Three

Hermione took a deep breath and pulled open the door to Paddy’s Pub. She’d never been here, but Harry swore it had the best fish and chips in the city. She looked around, liking what she saw. The booths were worn brown leather, and the lighting was dim, but the gleaming mahogany bar more than made up for the rest of the atmosphere. It smelled of Guinness and chips, and was so far removed from anything French it made her smile. 

She stepped inside and scanned the pub. Her stomach was jittery and her palms were sweating and she had no idea why. It was just Harry and Ron, after all. Harry and Ron were the closest to brothers she’d ever had. She cringed. She’d never even kissed either of them, but for some reason, thinking of them as relatives seemed somehow…incestuous. 

She stuffed her clamming hands into her trouser pockets and spotted a dark head of wild hair peeking out from above a booth way in the back. Smiling, she wove her wa through the front of the pub. 

Ron saw her and his face lit up. 

“Hermione!” He sprang from the table and enclosed her in a hug that should have, by all rights, crushed at least three of her ribs. 

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him back, savoring the feel of sinew and muscle beneath a layer of well-worn cotton. He smelled like the outdoors, like wind and sun and rain. She caught sight of Harry who had slid out of the booth and now stood beside them. 

He looked down at her and shook his head. He tapped Ron on the shoulder. “For Merlin’s sake, Ron, let her breathe. You’re crushing her ribs.”

Ron relaxed his embrace but kept one arm wrapped firmly around her waist. “Are you kidding? Hermione here’s a regular Amazon. I bet she could take us both with one arm tied behind her back.” He frowned down at her. “Right? I wasn’t hurting you, was I?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. I needed a really good hug.” On the last word her voice cracked and she was mortified to realize she was fighting tears. 

“Hey,” whispered Harry, reaching for her. “What’s wrong?” Then he put an arm around her shoulder, and Ron tightened his grip on her waist and that’s all it took. 

The dam burst and tears flooded her eyes. A moment later she felt herself compressed between two warm, firm bodies, sobbing against Harry’s shoulder while Ron stroked her back and whispered soothing words in her ear. 

She continued to cry, long and hard, far past what she’d imagined herself capable of. Or perhaps she just hadn’t realized how deeply her ex-husband had cut her, how lonely she’d actually been.

The more she tried to stop the tears, the harder she cried. She was beginning to think the well would never run dry when she heard Harry say over her head, “See? See what you did?”

“What? What the hell do _I_ have to do with this?”

“Are you kidding? Every woman you’ve ever touched as ended up in tears at some point.”

“Oh, go on and pull the other one, Harry.”

“Face it mate, you’re cursed.”

“You bet I’m cursed. Cursed to have to put up with someone like you for a best mate.”

“Oh yeah. Here we go…”

In unison they said, “With friends like you, who the fuck need _enemies_?”

Hermione laughed, and gave them both a mighty shove. They moved back, but not far. 

“See?” said Harry, his grin a poor mask for the concern that haunted his eyes. “I told you she was an Amazon.”

“Honestly, you two…” She shook her head and was startled ot feel Harry’s thumbs on her cheeks, brushing away the last of her tears. 

“Better?” he asked.

Feeling more than a little self-conscious, she pushed his hand away and tried her best to smile. “Yes, I do. Other than the fact that I could eat a whole cow, I’m fine.”

Ron clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Great, that’s what I like to hear. So what do you say? Are you up for fish and chips greasy enough to clog your arteries for the next year?”

Feeling better than she had in months, Hermione smiled. “Sounds better than caviar and champagne to me.”

The two men nodded agreement as the motioned for her to snuggle back in the corner of the booth and waved down the nearest waitress.

***

Ron sat back in his chair and watched her. She was smiling and laughing now, no doubt thanks to his and Harry’s banter and antics. They’d very deliberately not asked her about the outburst, focusing instead on more happy topics.

Ron had related some of his more spectacular saves as Keeper for the Chudley Canons, and Harry had her laughing over some of Scrimgeour’s more ridiculous notions as Minister. They’d told her about Neville and Seamus’ shocking romance, and Dean’s wife and children. No mention was made of the War, or of their Hogwart’s days. 

Harry hadn’t yet told her he wasn’t married to Ginny, and was in fact, involved with Ron. They’d agreed to wait until after dinner to make that announcement. They only hoped their relationship wouldn’t cause her to rethink rekindling their friendship. They’d both missed Hermione terribly, and wanted her in their lives. 

Harry had just finished telling Hermione about Ron’s fan girls, most notably one Lavender Brown who had thought Love Potion #9 would cause Ron to forget all about his other fans and marry her. It hadn’t led to very auspicious conclusion. 

Ron dropped his head on the table and moaned. “Oh, Merlin, please don’t bring that up again! The explosion when she threw it at me blew out half the field and they had to replace two sections of seats.”

Harry laughed and laid a comforting hand on Ron’s arm. “At least the Canons didn’t sue you for damages.”

“And that no one was seriously hurt,” Hermione added. Or at least, that’s what she assumed, since Harry was so amused by the whole incident. Neither Ron nor Harry said anything different, so she knew her assumption had been correct.

“They almost threw me off the team! If I hadn’t just won them the League Championship, I’m sure they would have! It was all very humiliating.”

Harry drained the last of his Guinness. “Humiliating perhaps, but it did make you a happy man for weeks afterward.”

Hermione leaned closer, put her head on Ron’s shoulder and batted her long, dark eyelashes. “Did the potion work, Ron? Did you fall in love with Lavender, despite the explosion?”

Ron moaned and dropped his head into his hands. “May I live to forget that awful time.”

Harry laughed. “I had to put up with weeks of ‘Wonnie-Kins’ and ‘Wuv yous’. It was all very painful.” In more ways than one, he added to himself. Though the potion had eventually worn off, those three weeks that Ron thought himself in love with Lavender were the some of the worst of Harry’s life. And that was saying something. “They dressed in matching outfits, Hermione. Burberry.” He shuddered comically, making Hermione laugh

“But you seem to have muddled through and come out alright,” Hermione said, kissing Ron on the top of head in sympathy.

“Barely,” Ron groaned. 

Hermione turned to Harry and said, “So, I know the technicalities of Quidditch, but I don’t know much about your department in the Ministry. Tell me about it?”

Harry grinned. “Well, after the war I kind of drifted a bit, spent a lot of time on the couch in our living room, drinking beer and watching football, but it gave me a lot fo time to think. And one issue I kept coming back to over and over again was how we Muggleborns, or Muggle-raised as I was, were at such a disadvantage early on at Hogwarts. Not so much, you, Hermione, since you were so clever and had memorized the entire history of Hogwarts by the time school began, but people like Justin Finch-Fletchy and the Creevy brothers, and me, we were kind of left to flounder the first few months at school. There was so much day-to-day details that we didn’t have a clue about, that it left us at a clear disadvantage later on in classes.” Harry paused to take a drink of his Guinness. “So, I drafted a proposal to the Minister out-lining my concerns for the next generation, so to speak, and he agreed to give me ten years to prove that educating Muggleborn wizards and their families would lead to higher integration of those wizards into Wizarding society after Hogwarts.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “So, you randomly chose some Muggleborns to participate, or contacted everyone on the Hogwarts registry would start and finish Hogwarts within ten years?”

Harry smiled. “I actually chose a random sample of students from the Muggleborns who would be in their 1st year at Hogwarts two years after the start of my program, so they would take their NEWTS at the end of the 9th year and have one full year as fully-trained Wizards before I have to present my findings to the Wizengamot.” Harry finished off his Guinness and motioned for Ron to order another round. “So, now the program is in its sixth year, and the findings have been so promising I’ve gotten the Minister to agree to implement a Muggle Education Program, where each Muggleborn wizard’s family is paired with a Wizarding family to guide them through our world, and to teach them our customs. I’ve also gotten the Board of Governors to make Muggle Studies a required class for all purebloods and half-bloods starting this school year. It should be interesting.”

Hermione’s eyes couldn’t possibly have gotten any larger. She just stared at him in wonder, eyes wide open and unblinking, the warm amber color searing him down to his soul. Harry felt himself being drawn to her in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. He’d always thought she had one of the most beautiful women; mind, body and soul; he’d ever encountered, but he’d never really felt attracted to her in any sexual sense of the word. The new sensation surprised him, threw him off balance and he had to fight to ignore it. 

“Harry, that all sounds wonderful! I’m so proud of you,” Hermione exclaimed. “Hopefully with more education, some of the prejudices against Muggles will disappear.” 

“That’s what I hope. Time will tell,” Harry agreed, trying to push his newfound attraction for her to the back of his mind. 

“I really don’t think you could ever tell me anything that would surprise and please me more than this. I was so afraid you’d never get past the war, and to find that you’ve found a way to turn something ugly into something so wonderful make me so happy.” She threw her arms around him, the position slightly awkward as she had to lean halfway across the table to reach him. 

“So, what about you, Hermione?” asked Ron, his voice soft and compelling. “What happed in Paris that has you so tied up in knots?”

Hermione stared at her beer, lifted it to her lips and then set it back down on the table. “My husband did his very best to destroy every aspect of my life, and nearly succeeded.” Hermione forced her voice to stay level as she continued, “Emotionally, intellectually, financially, you name it, and he did it. He did everything but screw around on me.” She laughed, but it was edgy, nervous. “Hell, at least _that_ I would have known how to deal with.”

Ron and Harry remained silent, waiting for her to finish the story in her own time. 

She took a large swallow of beer and, her eyes trained on the glass, continued. “We worked for the French Ministry of Magic. We’d both been advanced rapidly through our Departments and had, I thought, a lot in common. We were both in charm development and research, and had known each other professionally for several years before he began hinting at a more personal relationship. I thought we were well suited, and he was attractive, so I accepted when he asked me to dinner one night. In hindsight, I’d say our marriage was more of a business partnership than a romantic attachment, but I thought we dealt well together and could have a real future. But,” she drained the last of her beer, “what I didn’t realize was that he was presenting my research as his own, and when the chance for promotion to Head of the Department came, he made it look as if I was piggybacking on his work and not pulling my weight. I couldn’t prove that he was the one stealing my research and his lie got me fired.”

Ron and Harry moved to either side of Hermione, cuddling her between them. “Oh, Hermione, I’m so sorry,” Harry murmered into her hair, Ron nodding his agreement.

“That, of course, was the end of our marriage, and of my career. He later confessed that he’d only married me to get access to my personal research, and that being married to a cold fish had been torture.” Hermione’s voice broke finally, and she squeezed her eyes tightly to avoid spilling any tears. 

Harry leaned forward. “I know people,” he whispered. “You know…people who don’t mind bending rules a little to…”

Ron leaned in and joined the conspiracy. “Yeah. You know…” he shot a covert glance at the table next to them, “People who can take _care_ of this ex husband of yours.” 

Harry waggled his eyebrows. “We could have someone clean it up without ever pointing a finger in your direction.”

Hermione laughed and the mood instantly lightened. “You two are so full of it.”

“Maybe,” Ron said through a grin. “But we’re cute as hell.”

Hermione looked at him, and then shifted her gaze to Harry. “I have to agree with you there. You two look great.” Her gaze shifted back to Ron. “Really, really great.”

Ron preened. “You hear that, Harry? She wants me.”

“Actually,” said Harry, “I think she wants _me_.”

Hermione grinned. “I want both of you. Always have, you know. Always will.” She grabbed the check. “But I guess I’ll just have to satisfy myself with buying you dinner.”

“Hey!” Harry tried to snatch the check out of her fingers, but she held it close. 

“My treat,” she insisted. “The least a damsel in distress can do is feed her white knights.”

“Well,” said Ron, “when you put it that way…”

A few moments later the trip stepped out into an uncommonly warm spring evening. Although the lights of the city disguised the night sky, a soft, warm breeze toyed with their hair. Hermione looked so beautiful, her face lit by the streetlight and her eyes brimming with something Ron hoped was happiness. 

They walked to the corner, heading for the nearest Underground station. “Are you okay to get back to your hotel?” Ron asked. “Because if not…”

“Can I stay with one of you?” Hermione clapped her hands across her mouth and took a step back. “Oh, damn. I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth. I’m so sorry.”

“Hermione—“

“It’s just that when I walked into that hotel room it felt so cold and empty and I am so tired of being alone. Even when I was married I felt so alone, you know? Somehow over the years he just got so cold and distant, and I didn’t know what to do about it. I just gave up and after a while it we even stopped have sex and—“ Tears brimmed in her eyes again and her cheeks grew red with a blush. “And I can’t believe I just told you two that.”

“Hermione, it’s okay,” Harry said, reaching for her. 

She took a step back. “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Yes you should have.” Ron glanced at Harry. “It’s just…”

Harry finished for him. “We have something to tell you.”

“I should go back to the hotel.”

“No,” insisted Harry, his voice more forceful than Ron had heard since the war. “No, you shouldn’t. We’d just like a minute to talk it over, okay?”

She took a deep breath, galced from Harry to Ron and nodded. “Okay. I should go back in and use the toilet anyway. So…” she nodded again. “I’ll be right back.” And with that she retraced their steps back to the pub and disappeared inside. Only when the pub door had closed did the two men relax. 

“Fuck,” Ron swore. 

“Exactly. What do you think?” asked Harry. 

“I think she needs us,” Ron replied. 

“I know that, you berk. And I want to help but…” Harry leaned against the lamppost they were standing under, shoved his hands in his pockets. “But if she stays with us, we’re going to have to tell her the truth. And I’m afraid…with all she’s been through; if we tell her we’re together it might be too much for her.”

“Harry, you’ve always treated her like she was breakable, and that woman is made of steel. She’s stronger than you think.”

“And she’s more vulnerable than _you_ think.”

“She can handle it.”

Harry glanced back toward the pub. “Maybe _she_ can.” He looked back at Ron. “But can we?”

Ron wet his lips. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wants us.” He leaned in close to Ron and whispered. “And thing is, we want her too.”

Ron closed his eyes. “I know. I felt it, but I wasn’t sure you did.”

“Oh, yeah. I felt it. It was like that missing piece finally fell into place.”

“Exactly.”

Harry moved closer to Ron, so that mere inches separated their bodies. Ron’s heart started hammering in his chest. Harry’s lips were brushing against Ron’s throat, and Ron shivered when Harry whispered, “The thing is, I’m wondering if it’s such a bad idea.”

Ron hooked a thumb inside the waistband of Harry’s denims, breathed in the unique scent of Harry and power and springtime. “What do you mean?”

“We’re bored, Ron. We need some shaking up. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it, haven’t felt it.”

He hadn’t. Not really. But now, hearing Harry say it, he knew it was true. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I guess I did.”

Harry pulled back a little, just far enough to be able to look up and meet Ron’s eyes. “And maybe this is exactly the kind of shaking up we need.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“You know I am.”

“And what if it’s not what _she_ needs?”

“I think it is.”

“But what if it’s _not_?”

“All we can do is ask.”

“But first we have to tell her.”

Something flickered in Harry’s eyes. ‘I think I have a way around that.” And then he brought their lips together in a fiery kiss.

***

Hermione stepped out of the pup and started down the street to the corner where she’d left Ron and Harry. She could see the two of them standing close together, Ron leaning against a lamppost and Harry in front of him. They were deeply absorbed in conversation. They stood close, very close. Almost too close. There was something about them. Something about the way they—

She stopped dead in her tracks and watched in stunned silence as Harry pressed himself against Ron and did the unthinkable. Harry kissed Ron. 

He leaned up and covered Ron’s mouth with his own and kissed him hard. Open-mouthed, their lips melded together and broke apart, came together again. Tongues warred and teeth clashed. Harry plastered himself to Ron’s front, and Ron’s hands came down and gripped Harry’s ass possessively. Harry feverishly ran his hands over Ron’s shoulders, into his deep red hair, and finally fisted in Ron’s shirt. 

It was a provocative sight. To see two men, silhouetted in lamplight—two broad shouldered, narrow waisted men—locked in such a passionate exchange was…arousing. 

She stumbled backward. This was _Harry_ and _Ron_. These were her closest friends. Tow men she had known for over half her life, had shared so much with and now…now _this_?

She took a step closer to them and shouted, “You bastards! You complete bastards!” And then, her cheeks damp with tears once again—she turned and fled.

***

Harry and Ron broke apart as if Hermione had slapped them.

“Shit.”

Ron slammed a hand against Harry’s chest. “Nice going, genius.”

“ _You’re_ the one who said she was made of steel.”

“Made of steel, you idiot. Not solid fucking stone.”

“I just thought—“ Harry growled low in his throat. “Shouldn’t we go after her?”

“Yeah, we should.” And with that Ron sprinted off down the street. 

Harry waited only a heartbeat before taking off after them. 

_Sneak Peak of Next Week:_

_Hermione ran until her lungs burned. She ran past quaint boutiques and antique shops, darted beneath wrought iron streetlamps and swerved around strolling pedestrians. Her thighs began to tighten and a cramp took root in her side. But still she pushed on. Rage was a powerful motivator._

_“Hermione! For Merlin’s sake, stop!”_

_It was Ron, and she had no doubt he was gaining on her. She pushed harder._

__


End file.
